When Harry Met Sally
by SuperNatasha
Summary: Harry Watson, taking her of her ruined brother, meets Sally Donovan, the detective responsible. References to ACD's canon. Femslash. Might be a bit OOC since there's not much canon to go on for Sally & Harry.
1. A Missed Phone Call

A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot to try and practice writing Sally's voice for another story, but I ended up writing a lot more. Sally Donovan (despite the fandom) is one of my favorite characters. Reviews are welcome!

* * *

Sally Donovan's drained, turning in the last few files at the police station, when she the woman comes in. Messy dark blonde hair, dark eyes that look gray but are probably some really dark shade of blue, kind of short. She's got her coat collar turned up against the awful wailing wind outside, a pair of what looks like sleeping pajamas (or very comfortable slacks), and a frown on her otherwise beautiful face. It's the kind of face that needs to be comforted so Sally smiles at her.

She ignores Sally and says to the receptionist, "They called me. I'm here to pick up my brother; he got arrested earlier in a drunken brawl at the pub." She sounds tired and annoyed, probably done this before, already reaching into her purse to show proper ID.

"He'll be in the back waiting area where you'll pay the bond," the receptionist examines her ID first and makes a copy of it, then returns to her computer to ask, "Okay, Miss Harriet. And who's your brother?"

"I've been here before; my number should be on file."

"You'll have to state the name of your brother for the record, Miss."

She sighs, "John Watson."

"John Watson?" Sally interrupts the exchange.

Harriet gives her an almost dirty look. "Yes, John Watson, _the_ blogger John Watson. If you've got something rude to say, go ahead and fucking get it out of your system instead of saying it in front of John."

"Oh, no, it's nothing rude… I'm Detective Donovan. I, uh, I worked with Sherlock and John. I've met him before," Sally says.

Instantly, Harriet's expression changes. It becomes softer, she's almost embarrassed. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean it like that. You have to understand, things have been rough for John. Losing his best friend then having to deal with the things people say. Awful things."

Sally can imagine. All the times she called Sherlock a freak, they nag at her. She can't help but think on some level that this is all her fault; the death of one man and the breaking of another. After his suicide, she went over all the case files Sherlock had been involved in and they were all clean. They were real. Sherlock had been real. And Sally was left with the guilt that she had gotten him, her boss, and the ex-army doctor, all in a very deep mess.

Now, she says to Harriet in atonement, "If I can help in anyway, please let me know."

Harriet smiles. "I appreciate that. Thank you. For now, I think I can handle it."

"Oh! Here," Sally says, digging into the pocket of her skirt to find a card. She scrawls her mobile on the back of it with a pen from the Reception Desk. "Call me if I can be of any assistance."

"Actually…" Harriet hesitates as she puts the card in her purse.

"Yes?" Sally prods.

"Do you mind if John doesn't see you while I'm bringing him out. It's just that he doesn't like when anyone sees him, you know, like this. Especially not a coworker. It'll save him the embarrassment," Harriet shrugs. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was a big deal."

"I get it, that's all right, really. I was just leaving anyway. Pleasure to meet you, Harriet," she adds, holding out her hand for the other woman to shake.

"Just call me Harry," she replies. Her hand is warm, steady; her grip surprisingly powerful.

"Sally," the detective answers. She flashes one more smile for the pretty lady, then Harry's walking down the hall to the holding cells.

Sally fulfills her promise and waits outside and out of sight by the corner of the building, keeping an eye on both the entrance and the parking lot. The wind has gotten worse and she doesn't have any hairties for her frizzy hair and she's cold, but she wants to see John. Her guilt bubbles up until it's difficult to swallow; she thinks of Greg calling 221B Baker Street to check up on the doctor, of the many files pending because the Met wasn't genius enough to solve them. She thinks of Mycroft Holmes, the terrifying and overwhelming, spending hours in Lestrade's office to reveal all the threads of James Moriarty's web and shut them down with scary efficiency.

Sally hadn't cared of the lives she had hurt when she took her suspicions to the Superintendent. So she stays.

The door opens eventually, spilling light and noise onto the street. Harry, skinny and short Harry who's certainly at least a head shorter, has her brother's arm slung around her shoulders. He's ranting about something angrily, his drunken tongue stumbling nearly as bad as his legs. Harry's practically carrying him out to her car. She's saying something to him in a soothing voice, though Sally can't make out what it is. They pass Sally and she crouches. Her heart is beating too fast, mouth dry and sweat springing up on her forehead. What is she doing? Hiding from them to _spy_ on them?

They don't seem to spot her anyway, making their way through the abandoned parking lot. The siblings pause at her car while Harry struggles to hold John upright and simultaneously dig through her purse for keys.

John takes the moment to yell, "And then I punched him and said '_FUCK YOU, HE WAS REAL_!' right to his face!" He mimics punching an invisible enemy, falling out of Harry's arms and hitting the ground painfully. Even Sally flinches from her hiding place.

"Oh, fucksake, Johnny. Pull yourself together," Harry says, kneeling beside him.

John lay's on his back and slurs, "There's nothing to pull together. I'm all here and I'm all gone."

Sally joins her brother on the concrete, at first sitting and looking up at the stars, eventually letting her head touch the ground as well. They stare up and Sally strains to hear any conversation between them. There doesn't seem to be any, and if there is, the wind eats it up.

Then the wind quiets down and she _does_ hear, Harry is talking, saying, "…and now the roles are reversed. I've finally found my place in the world and you've lost yours. But I'll be here for you, just like you were there for me. And- unlike you- there are no wars that can take me away from my big brother."

Sally can't feel her toes anymore, her nose and ears have gone numb from the wind, and it feels like her knees are bruising against the wall. But she keeps her head leaned forward in hopes of hearing more. She wants Harry to speak more reassuring words. She wants to hear them and imagine that they're for her. Tears are welling up in her eyes, making it difficult to see their silhouettes under the harsh fluorescent streetlamps.

But there are no more words. Just John and Harry, looking up and sharing the silence in the wind.

Finally, she hears Harry say "Okay, now sober the fuck up and get in the car. I'll run you a bath when we get home and we'll pretend this was another one of those '_Watson Temper'_ things that never happened."

The way she says _Watson Temper_ makes it seem like a regular occurrence. Sally is suddenly much more fascinated than she should be in the life of the doctor and his sister.

This time, there are no complaints from John as Harry stuffs him into the car. Headlights flash in the dark, the engine rumbling with a particular exhausted strain, and the pair disappear down the street. Sally stays there long after they've left until her entire body is sore and cramped, face chapped by the wind, and hair tangled so that'll take centuries to brush out.

She gets to her feet and the sudden rush of blood is painful, nearly paralyzing. Sally leans against the wall and struggles to maintain her balance. Carefully, she totters a few steps forward and gains confidence. The detective makes her way to the car on legs that don't feel like legs.

* * *

Harry hasn't called. There are a million things wrong with a missed phone call, and Sally is blaming all of them on herself.

_I scared her off. I was rude and a total bitch. I wrote my number wrong. My handwriting was too messy. She lost my card. She's extremely busy with work and her brother. She isn't the least bit interested in women- or at least not me. Something happened- someone's hurt. John told her all about how I'm the one responsible for Sherlock's suicide. She knows about my drunk one night-stand with Anderson._

The longer Sally waits, the more implausible and ridiculous the theories became until Sally is completely desperate for a call. _I can't be that bad. Of course she's justified in hating me as much as she wants, but I'm not that awful._

Even Greg notices, wondering why she was checking her mobile constantly, even at a crime scene.

"Oh- sorry, I was just… erm, my mum was supposed to call…"

Greg definitely notices her stammering but says, "It's alright, Sally, I was just asking."

She puts her phone away, scolding herself as a fucking retard and returning to work. That it is actually possible to become this enamored with a woman she only met for five minutes seems unlikely to believe. Sally keeps trying to find a rational solution for it.

Eventually, she finds herself searching police records for Harriet Watson. Her information comes up with a phone number, but when Sally tries it, an operator tells her that this number has been disconnected. In a last effort that borders obsession, Sally realizes where she can find an updated number and returns back at the station's holding cells, asking the receptionist for last month's records. "Regarding a case," she lies cleanly.

They're already arranged in alphabetical order, all Sally has to do is flip to the very end and find Watson. And there she is, her face on the drivers ID in a slight smile, hair definitely longer, looking younger even though the ID's still recent.

Sally takes a photograph of the ID with her phone and returns the records.

She goes home and takes off her work boots and coat and sits on the sofa, staring at the number until she's unwittingly memorized it. Sally isn't sure why Harriet has become such a focal point in her life. She tries to justify it: _I want to be sure John is okay. I find her attractive._

She realizes: _I want her to forgive me. She's the one dealing with John and his heartbreak, and she's doing it because of me. Because I refused to believe a man could be that much more intelligent than the Met. Because I was incompetent at my job. She is a real person who is in crisis. I have to accept that she is a byproduct of my selfishness._

Sally wants to cry. Of course she does, though she manages to hold back. She's never been comfortable with accepting blame. When she was just a beginner, one of her friends she worked with had gone to a hostage situation. She had happened to be lucky enough to stay back that day, busy with paperwork and bored. Wanting to be out there in the field doing actual work.

Her friend came back on a stretcher under a white sheet, dead.

Sally still thinks about it on days she can't get to sleep; or perhaps she can't sleep because she's thinking about it. Being down there in the morgue, everything around her cold and sterile and dead, asking to see his body one last time. He hadn't looked angry or sorry. Just sad, sleeping permanently. And she could've been lying in his place, hair spread out like a halo, just as dead as he was.

Now she wants someone like Harry to talk to her, whisper in her ear that it wasn't her fault, that she was only following protocol. No matter how awful Sherlock had been to her in the past, she had no right. Her little vendetta had extended far past detective work.

_And protocol doesn't change the fact that I've caused a man to kill himself. I made his best friend lose himself in alcohol. I've taken away Scotland Yard's most valuable tool and Lestrade's most trusted detective._

Is she jealous? She doesn't have anyone to hold her at night or bring her warm tea. Anderson might be a complete wanker, but he _is_ married. Not happily- but still. At least he goes home to a human body that takes his coat and kisses him. John's got his sister.

At first, she had taken her problems to Greg. He had sympathized and told her not to take it to heart; that she wasn't to blame. Of course his conscience was clean, though, he had practically helped Sherlock escape. And after his conversations with Sally, Lestrade always goes home to his ex-wife and tucks in his children, reads them bedtime stories and teaches them to play football.

Sally comes home to an empty flat, washing down leftover food with lager.

Sally dials the number and her thumb hovers over the green key on her phone. She stares at it. Waiting for inspiration, hoping it will ring by itself. It does neither, leaving the decision on her mind alone. In the end, she decides to call. At that very moment, she realizes it is suddenly 3 AM.

And now she has found an excuse not to call.

She falls asleep on the sofa and wakes up three hours later when her alarm screeches into her ear, a warning that the world has not stopped to accommodate her whims and shortcomings.

* * *

Lunch break, she manages to make up some bad excuse to get away from Anderson and walks to the café across the street. The sun feels nice on her bare arms, work is tolerable (but just barely), and her phone is in her hand. She finds a spot to sit, orders fish and chips, nervously squirms in her seat. Should she call?

Sally almost decides against it except she does.

Hears it ring in her ears and tells herself, _it's too late to hang up now; you'll only look like a demented creep if you leave missed calls._ Then she hopes, _please don't let John pick up._

"Hello?" A distinctly female voice; not John, then.

Sally sighs mentally and forces her voice to be normal, "Harriet? Harry Watson? It's Sally."

"Oh! Um, Detective! How are you?"

"I'm good, doing great. How about you? How did things go with John?"

"John's fine. He started his old job at the clinic again yesterday, so with any luck he'll be staying out of trouble from now on," she chuckles.

The throaty sound relaxes Sally. "That's amazing news!"

"Yeah, actually, I think he should feel better about his old friends visiting him. You know, as a way to support him. Let him know they're still there for him. I'm sure it would cheer his spirits up."

Sally feels the relaxation dropping away abruptly. She sits up in her booth and says, "Well, things are a bit busy for me at the moment, I don't think I can drop by anytime soon."

"Well, whenever you're free. No rush."

"I'll see. But all my best wishes to John in the meantime, of course."

"Of course," Harry says. There's a pause, then she talks again but her voice is lower and no longer affable, "One person has come to see him. Since Sherlock… well, since what happened. One person. Mike Stamford was over for a few minutes. Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade called. A total of three people showed any concern. I'm glad everyone realizes how tragic this is. Goodbye, Detective."

And suddenly, Sally's left talking to no one. By the time her food arrives, she's lost her appetite.

* * *

_[3 missed calls.]_

_[Message Sent: I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you or John. I really am busy; with our best man gone, things at the Met are hectic. -SD]_

_[Message Sent: Harriet? I just want to talk, would you mind picking up? -SD]_

_[2 missed calls.]_

_[Message Sent: I apologize. I just don't think I can face John yet. Someone from Scotland Yard would probably only make it worse for him; after all, aren't we responsible? I'll stop bothering you. -SD]_

_[Message Received: No one thinks Scotland Yard is responsible for what happened. Why would you have trouble facing John? He needs a mate. -HW]_

_[Message Sent: Can we please meet tonight? I'll try to explain. -SD]_

_[Message Received: Alright. I can drop by after work. But I'll be expecting answers. –HW]_

_[Message Sent: Thank you so much. I'll send my address. –SD]_


	2. The First Move

She can't believe what she's done. Invited John Watson's sister over to talk about her feelings. Feelings that she can't tell anyone. Feelings that would undoubtedly ruin any chances of friendship she may have forged with Harriet. Perhaps it's more that Sally's afraid John will blame her, the soldier who overcame his limp and PTSD to help a man like Sherlock Holmes. As if it isn't bad enough blaming herself.

Sally returns home and cleans her messy flat, sets the kettle. She sits on the couch and twists her fingers. She gets up and paces, eventually goes to take a shower and scrubs until it's raw beneath her dark skin, finds clean clothes. By the time she's out, the water's boiled down to nothing more than steam. She adds more water and turns down the gas. She does anything that will prevent her from thinking.

Waiting. Isolated.

The bell rings and Sally jerks up. Deep breathing, back straight, guilt hidden away behind a mask of Detective Donovan. With as much professional courtesy as she can manage, Sally opens the door and lets Harry in.

She's obviously just returning from work. Her hair's tied back, smudged make up, her heels are as long and sharp as pencils. When she brushes past Sally, she smells of sweat and alcohol and something slightly fruity. Her lotion, maybe her shampoo, the scent still lingering after a long day. Sally finds herself intimidated and at a loss for words. Are there even any words she can say for the occasion?

Thankfully, it's Harry who breaks the silence, "Where should I sit?"

"Oh, anywhere there's room!" Sally exclaims. She winces; her voice sounds too high to her own ears. _At least be a halfway decent host, you fucking idiot._ "The sofa's fine," Sally amends.

Harry sits at the spot Sally had slept last night.

"I've made tea; how do you take yours?" Sally asks, going into the kitchen.

"No milk, just a spoon of sugar," Harry answers. Sally pours out two cups and returns. She puts them both on the table and sits at the chair across from Harriet.

She clears her throat. "First, I want to say I'm sorry."

"Isn't everyone?" Harry counters.

"I'm… afraid of meeting him. I'm afraid it'll bring back all the bad memories."

"If that's the case, John's a lot stronger than you think."

"No… not for him. For me."

Harry peers up at Sally from the rim of the cup. Her faded lipstick still manages to leave an imprint on the fine china. "That bad?" She asks.

"Probably worse," Sally admits. "It was a bad time. People were dying everywhere around us, children getting kidnapped… then there's Moriarty, getting off free at court and we were all helpless. We couldn't do a thing by ourselves. It wasn't just a failure on the part of the Met, it was on _our _part, too. Each of us. And our last hope, Sherlock… well, didn't we _all_ condemn him?" Her voice cracks at the end. She's trying to shift the blame. She's trying to be the victim, suddenly irrationally afraid of blurting out the truth.

Harry's silent as she takes in those words. She puts down her cup and stands. Sally almost flinches. Is she going to leave? No. She comes around the table and kneels beside the chair, putting a hand on Sally's knees. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have judged you without knowing what you went through."

_I'm sorry._ Harry's the one saying it, but Sally's the one who means it. This time, the tears don't hold back. Sally shuts her eyes and shakes her head, trying to get rid of them, but that only makes them spill over her lids and onto her cheeks.

Harry's arms wrap around her in a warm embrace. Sally's wet cheek presses against Harry's throat so she can feel the humming vibrations when Harry says, "Sally, I didn't want to… I'm not- Please don't cry."

Sally pulls back, rubbing her eyes with the back of a wrist. She shouldn't be accepting this sympathy; she doesn't deserve it. Sally hasn't lied yet but neither is she being entirely honest. She wants to admit the truth. But when her eyes open, through the blurry and dim outline, all she can see is Harry's intense dark eyes studying her and she can't say a single word.

She isn't sure which one of them makes the first move, but one of them must've leaned forward because Harry's lips are suddenly on hers. She's understanding and gentle, murmuring nothing and everything until Sally opens her mouth and deepens the kiss.

She can taste Harry's distinct tang mixed with the stale cosmetic flavor of lipstick and her own salty tears. Sally's not sure if this is what she wants; it _isn't_ what she wants, she decides. Not like this. Not with secrets. Nevertheless, when Harry comes up for air, she's the one who catches the shorter woman's lips between her teeth and pulls her face forward again in invitation. Harry accepts.

It's a language between them, between every movement of their tongues battling against each other, between Harry's fingers at the top of Sally's button-down, between Sally's hands pressing the blonde's arse closer… if there was any uncertainty this was going to happen, it's gone now.

The cold air on Sally's skin causes her to shiver as her shirt is pushed down; it's a prompt to pull away for a moment and growl, "Bedroom."

She leads the shorter woman to her darkened room, shedding clothes and heels and hesitation on the way, leaving a fabric trail. Her covers are still untouched from sleeping on the sofa the night before and she yanks Harry down on top of them. Sally kisses down her neck, leaving goosebumps in the wake of her hot breath, cupping her breasts with her strong hands. She's surprisingly soft for someone so small. Sally wants nothing more than Harriet in this moment to ease her loneliness and the ache to be touched.

A thin veil of cotton encounters Sally's exploring fingers, and she neatly tugs the underwear off. Harry's wet already, and the first slight touch to her entrance makes her gasp. Something about that gasp, just like her laugh, relaxes Sally and gets rid of her last guards. In most people's case, it would mean vulnerability. In Harry's case, it seems to mean confidence. She tangles her fingers in Sally's hair, pushing her lower.

Harry squirms beneath Sally's touch, tongue working magic, two fingers inside begging her to come. Every moan only increases her fervent desire. Sally knows, even through her lust, that she's only making it worse for herself by doing this. But the walls of Harry's sweet cunt clenching around her and her back arching in the air shut her up. She blocks out any other thought than the frantic push of her lust and the woman writhing on her bed, spent and panting.

"My turn?" Harry laughs, high and breathy and more than ready to return the favor. The detective doesn't reply but Harry's adept at this, kissing her and expertly flipping Sally on her back.

_I'm sorry,_ Sally thinks, but there are no apologies in bed.

* * *

Before she leaves, Harry says "My brother isn't that scary, you know."

"I know. I'm just not ready for it yet. I'll try."

Harry nods and kisses her on the forehead, "In your own time, then." She leaves, shutting the door behind her. Harry doesn't mention meeting John again.

This time, she does call. And the very next day too, at ten in the morning, asking when Sally's lunch break is and inviting her to meet at a restaurant near her flat. Sally agrees.

They sit across from each other, sharing a plate of crisps and not talking.

Sally finally asks, "Should we talk about last night?"

"What's there to talk about?"

"Well… what happened."

Harry smiles mischievously. "Wanna do it again?"

"Sorry?" Sally looks surprised. This, she had not expected.

"Okay, look, one of the other bartenders is covering my shift and I have an hour and I really enjoyed last night… so?" Harry's eyebrow raises and Sally can feel herself blush.

She shouldn't- she knows everywhere that this is _wrong_, morally and emotionally. She's taking advantage of her- Sally stops that train of thought. _Two consenting adults, _Sally reminds herself. "Alright, then. Let's go," Sally agrees recklessly.

By the time she gets back to her office, Lestrade's giving his watch pointed looks, but Sally can't be arsed with anything as petty as time.

* * *

They meet frequently, always at Sally's flat. They have take-out and talk about little things and nothing, mostly just filling the void with inane chatter and passionate fucking. Sally finds herself addicted to watching Harry. She's fiercely loyal toward her brother, cursing and lashing out at anyone who calls him crazy, coming in with stories about how she spit in the lager of a man who mentioned how insane the dead fake genius and his gay buddy were. In her free time, Harry sketches surprisingly accurate doodles and caricatures of celebrities and Sally's neighbors.

Harry says she's working at a bar since she got fired from the advertising agency for "being drunk pretty much all the time." She says being surrounded by alcohol somehow makes it easier to resist- "Mostly," she laughs, "because I could never pay back the tab."

"I can go rough up your old boss a bit, for laughs. At least scare him shitless. The advantage of being with a detective," Sally offers.

Harry grins and considers before saying, "No, they were right in firing me. I was a shitty employee. Besides, I like the tips at the bar and I'd rather someone didn't get in trouble because of me."

She is, after all, a Watson.

As Sally spends more time with her lover, they get closer. Harry keeps a toothbrush and spare clothes in Sally's flat. They regularly go out to eat and watch foreign films (mostly to make fun of the acting). Their conversations get deeper until they're curled up in bed one night after sex, discussing their pasts ardently.

"I came out on my eighteenth birthday; my mum was initially surprised but eventually she figured it didn't matter. It was so much worse at school," Harry confesses, "Kids picked on me constantly and I suppose I was an easy target, the short skinny dyke. John could only beat up so many bullies. College was a relief. A blessing. I finally learned to be comfortable with my sexuality."

"My mum pretty much always knew. Or, I guess, she never cared. She was always more concerned with me joining policework than being bi," Sally says. She hesitates, then adds, "I never officially came out to anyone else but the very first time I met Sherlock, he announced in front of the entire squad that I was bisexual, if not a lesbian."

Harry gasps, "Sherlock outed you?"

"It seemed like a big deal at the time," Sally tells her, trying to emphasize that it wasn't anymore and wishing she'd never brought it up.

"Never met the man myself. I've heard of his behaviors and tempers, but I figured he couldn't be that awful if my brother was willing to bend over backwards to please him. Jesus, that's fucking awful. I'm sorry; nobody should have to go through that." Harry seems truly angry, sympathetic.

"Nobody particularly cared," Sally hastily says, "Besides, isn't that what best friends do? Forgive mistakes, look past bad habits?" _Like I wish I had?_

Harry doesn't reply, but her bad mood persists for the rest of the day. She puts up a sketch on the fridge later of Sally comically kicking a man with long curly hair and a scarf around his neck. Sherlock. Sally knows she means well but she throws the picture away the minute Harry leaves. It's still too close to home for comfort.

One day, Harry comes in beaming. "John's dating again. He met this lovely woman, Mary Morstan. She's so nice to him! Oh, I'm really happy for him."

Sally's genuinely delighted to hear John's moved on from the tragedy. She thinks perhaps she'll be forgiven now, but she's too happy with Harry to take the chance. She's found something and she doesn't want to lose that. On the chance that John _doesn't_ forgive her, losing Harry would be inescapable. And now, it would be too much to bear. She isn't just a friend or a lover- she's a refuge. She's an escape. The only place Sally can feel comfortable anymore is curled up beside her.

A few months later, they've become official. Harry introduces her as her "partner" at the bar when she drops by. Alone, she croons cheesy nicknames to Sally and revels in calling her "the best girlfriend ever." She doesn't approach the topic of meeting John.

Later that month, Harry picks her up in the evening and drives to her flat. Sally freezes at the door until Harry prods her and says, "C'mon! My brother's spending the night at Mary's place."

She takes her by the hand and they enter together. Harry's set up candles and rose petals everywhere, cooked an entire meal and set up their favorite movies. Sally feels stifled in the home of John Watson. She tries to act normal all through dinner, laughing at all the right moments and smoothly forcing conversation.

When Harry goes to take a quick shower, Sally peeks into John's bedroom. His bed is turned down in military fashion. There is a skull on his desk that is familiar. On one of the walls, there is an entire montage of pictures taped together. Several feature Sherlock in them, some are with Harry, some are from his military days or at St. Barts. In a few, Sally sees a beautiful blonde, her hair almost glowing luminescent. John looks happy with her. _Mary?_ She wonders. Her eyes falls on a long black coat hung on the closet door, clearly untouched.

It makes her inexplicably sad. Sherlock is a difficult man to forget, if the feat is ever even accomplished. Sally hears Harriet shut off the water and swiftly leaves John's room, closing the door.

They make love on Harry's bed for the first time. It's the only time in their relationship that Sally has to fake it. She feels surrounded by memories of the dead and they suffocate her.

The next day, Harry picks her up and they order Chinese takeout. Back at Sally's flat, she announces that John's moving out. "He says it was obvious I had someone over last night and feels bad. He doesn't know about us yet so I didn't bother to volunteer. But John thinks he's lived off me long enough. He's looking for a place with Mary."

Sally isn't sure how to comprehend the news, so she smiles and speculates, "Maybe I'll drop by and say hello to him soon."

Harriet looks delighted.

* * *

The next time they go to Harry's flat, there are no more pictures or long black coats or skulls. Sally's relieved. The presence of the ghost she had felt last time is gone. She is free to enjoy and breathe.

That night, long after they've been spooning in bed, Sally whispers to Harriet, "I love you."

"I love you, too," Harry replies without a second thought.

Sally had been so sure she was sleeping.


	3. Hi, John

Harry buys Sally clothes regularly; she insists she has the superior fashion sense and she's sick of Sally wearing clothes that wash out her bold features. Sally, for her part, was never even aware she had features that _could_ be described as "bold."

They're both doing well. Harry's been sober for the entire time she's with Sally, nearing two years now. She still puts in regular hours at the pub, but her illustrations are being published in newspapers and magazines as a freelance artist. She's been going to several high-class events and bringing Sally with her, proudly introducing her to everyone.

Sally doesn't think it's a big deal when Harry throws a deep necked formal black gown and barks, "Get ready; I've got a surprise."

Grumbling the entire time that she doesn't like surprises, Sally still puts it on and has to admit it looks good on her. She compliantly gets in the car when Harry announces they're leaving. Sally studies her girlfriend; she looks more cheery than usual, wearing a bit more makeup and expensive jewelry.

_Where are we going?_

They stop at an event hall. Harry links arms and they walk into the building together. Inside, there's a second door that a butler holds open for them. Sally instantly freezes when she spots the banner draped over an entire wall reading:

_**JOHN AND MARY  
ENGAGEMENT PARTY.**_

_Oh, god,_ she thinks, _no._

Harry hardly notice when Sally drops her arms, busy as she is sweeping into the noise and crowd, greeting people and shaking hands. They meet at the far end, toward the bar, where Harry gives her a little push toward the stage and says, "Aren't you going to give the happy couple the honor of shaking your hand?"

Sally manages to laugh and takes a few tottering steps forward. Harry only watches for a few seconds, but she has other things at the forefront of her mind, like her brother's ring which seems to have been misplaced.

John is smiling wide when she finally spots him. He's accepting congratulations and sipping wine, the grin on his face a true marvel. Her heart breaks and mends in that one blow. Would he have been this happy with Sherlock alive? Would he have been even happier?

Sally waits until John is carried to the side by one of his friends and she takes the chance to talk to Mary. She's even more beautiful in person than in the photographs. She's a gracious and gentle woman.

Sally says, "I wish you both have a happy life together."

Mary smiles and turns reflexively to seek out John, answering, "We will."

Sally spends the rest of the evening hiding out with the catering staff behind the bar. Thankfully, Harry's too busy with orchestrating the affair to notice. She's finding rings, entertaining guests, and finally leading the clap when the rings are exchanged.

As the function is winding down and the last few dances have died down into background noises, Harry comes and finds Sally clutching a nearly empty bottle of wine. She frowns but doesn't comment on the bottle, only says, "I'm sorry I've been too busy to show you around. But John mentioned he hadn't seen my girlfriend yet."

"Yeah, er, I talked to Mary but John was busy at the time."

"It's been longer than two years. You can do this," Harry says softly. She kisses Sally lightly and adds, "It's alright if you don't want to. We can just go home."

"No- we'll do what _you_ want," Sally asserts, the alcohol lending her bravery that would probably flee at the time she needed it most.

"Well, the last guests are already gone, so shall we?"

Sally clumsily gets to her feet. Harry takes her hand and pulls her to where John and Mary are sitting for the first time that night. Mary's taken her heels off, John's tie is loosened. They look tired but happy, laughing at some private joke.

"John- you finally get to meet my lady," Harry declares with unrestrained excitement in her voice.

"Oh, yes!" John looks up. His expression changes the second he lays eyes on her.

"Hi, John," Sally greets him, willing not to let her eyes falter away.

"Sally Donovan," he says flatly. His eyes slide to his sister. "You're dating Detective Sally Donovan."

"Isn't it fantastic? You already know each other."

"_Know_ each other? She's the reason Sherlock was arrested!" John hisses angrily.

"John!" Mary utters anxiously, her hand on his shoulder.

He shakes her hand off and stands. He's the exact height as Sally is, leaning into her face. "It was you, with your insults and suspicions!"

"John! How dare you?" This time, it's Harry who steps between them, both hands on John's chest to push him back. "She didn't do anything!"

"_DO_ ANYTHING?" He demands indignantly.

"Stop it!" Harry screams, those tiny lungs producing sound loud enough to echo through the hall.

"She did _EVERYTHING!"_ John bellows in return. He stares at his sister for a moment before the anger on his face subsides into a different expression. This is the John that Sally is afraid of. The rational soldier who stands perfectly calm and composed in the face of a raging storm. This version of John who has a catastrophic smile on his face and says, "You don't know, do you, Harry? She hasn't told you."

"Told me? Told me what?" Harry turns to Sally. "Told me what?"

"Don't do this," Sally warns John, but it's too late.

"Told me what?" Harry repeats with a deadly fury.

Sally refuses to meet Harry's gaze, instead telling the floor between them the truth she has tried to bury inside her for years, the truth she was in denial about: "I was the one who made the official complaint to the Superintendent about Sherlock."

"No," Harry chokes on the syllable. She seems to crumple in on herself.

"Harry…" Sally and John say at the same time, both reaching for the woman standing between them.

Harry flinches away from both of them, shaking her head. "No!" She yells, turning and running behind her, out the hall and building.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" John curses. He turns to Mary and quickly says, "I'll be right back."

Just before he starts running behind his little sister, he turns to give Sally a look. He doesn't bother saying a single word to her, simply shakes his head in disgust and takes off, as if she isn't even worth wasting breath on.

Sally tries to open her mouth but isn't sure how to make her paralyzed body move again.

Mary is on her phone, saying, "I'll need you to pick me up, I'm not sure when John's going to be back. It's about Harry; she's in a bit of trouble."

Hearing it stated so explicitly spurs Sally into action. She runs to the exit and out of the building. Obviously, Harry's car is gone. Sally doesn't have money for a cab. But she does have the key to Harry's flat. With renewed urgency, Sally kicks off her fancy heels and takes off toward her flat.

By the time she gets there, her muscles are burning with lactic acid and her eyes feel full of grit. She turns the lock but finds the flat empty and dark. She hasn't been home yet. Worried, Sally tries her mobile. She hopes and prays Harry hasn't turned to alcohol. Sally winds up on the couch, hating herself and everything she's done in her life.

The worst part is, she _knew_ this would happen. A moment like this had to arrive eventually. There were no alternatives when you carried something like that around on your conscious, eating away at your soul. Sally had tried to cover it up but even the sweetest perfumes can't cover the stench of her deeds.

Eventually, in the earliest hours of the morning, the doorknob turns and Harry is standing there. Sally can tell immediately that she isn't drunk. She hasn't been crying either. She simply stands there in solidarity.

"I'm sorry?" Sally starts, standing from the sofa.

Before she can go on, Harry says smoothly, "I want the keys to my flat back. Pack up all your things and leave. When you're at work tomorrow, I'll do the same at your place. I'll leave the keys on the front table."

"Please. That was a long time ago. I didn't mean for Sherlock to kill himself. I didn't mean for any of that to happen."

"But it did," Harry retorts icily.

"Harry… I love you. Don't do this. I'll do anything, I swear. I'll make it up to you. I'll never keep another secret… please. You're my only hope," Sally steps closer but Harry takes a step back. "I was nothing before you. You change me; you make me happy to be somebody, to be alive."

"I want you. To get the fuck. Out of my home."

"But I lo-"

"NOW!" Harry spits viciously, holding out her hand.

Sally places the key on her steady palm, steps around Harriet, and leaves. It isn't until she's out on the streets and making her way home barefoot that the tears streak her face with mascara and the wind bites at her beautiful black dress.

* * *

Greg Lestrade corners her at the office while she's at the coffee machine, her third already and it was still before lunch break. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Sorry?" Sally stares up at him, wondering if she's really so transparent.

"Come now," he coaxes. "I've known you- what? Fifteen years? Longer?"

She shrugs. "Not a big deal."

"Sally…" Greg pauses. "Talk to me."

"Romance problems," Sally dismisses, trying to swallow back the lump in her throat.

"This mysterious girlfriend of yours, then? What happened?"

"It was Harriet Watson," Sally mutters, prompting Lestrade to lower his face to hear her properly.

At first, the name means nothing to him. He searches his memory. Then she sees the realization dawn on his face as he murmurs, "Harry Watson. John's sister. Oh, fuck. You've been shagging John's sister."

"John got engaged yesterday. He finally met me. I'm not the 'mystery girlfriend' anymore. Actually, I'm not the 'girlfriend' at all."

Greg hugs her while she struggles not to break down. He understands right away and says, "It was your duty, what you did. We discovered Moriarty was the one really responsible. You can't keep doing this to yourself, Sally. It wasn't your fault."

"Tell Harry that," Sally answers, muffled through Greg's shirt.

Greg pulls apart from her, holding her at shoulder length. "I don't think that's what got to Harry. I think the fact that you hid it from her…" he trails off. "Take the rest of the day off. You look like you need the sleep."

"No, I'll stick around. I have work."

"Someone'll handle it. I need my best officer alert and on her best. I'm ordering you to go home, Detective Donovan," Greg commands.

Sally manages to smile, murmuring, "Thank you." She doesn't tell him the real reason she doesn't want to go home; she doesn't want to walk into an empty flat and sleep alone. She goes home anyway. There is a box of her things waiting inside, with her key on it. All the things that belonged to Harry are gone. She was thorough.

Needless to say, Sally doesn't get invited to John's big day.

She spends the wedding night crying into the night and wishing there was a way to change the past.


	4. Sherlock Isn't Dead

"_**Sherlock Holmes, Genius Detective,  
Returns Alive after Faking Suicide  
and Dismantling International Gang!"**_

She doesn't believe it at first, staring into the newspaper headline practically screaming at her in bold black print. Right there placed beside the headline on the very first page, a picture of the man she could recognize in her sleep. His hair is shorter than she remembers, his cheekbones sticking out from gaunt skin, but it's undoubtedly him.

Sherlock Holmes.

And he's alive. In London. Three years after he jumped off a building.

Sally dresses in record time and gets in the first cab she sees (which is pretty soon, considering it's wickedly early in the morning), yelling "Scotland Yard, hurry! Police business!"

She leaps out of the cab, throwing money at the cabbie without bothering to check whether it was the right amount, and runs the rest of the way up to Greg Lestrade's office. It's early; he's always the first person in. And he obviously hasn't read the paper yet. Otherwise he wouldn't be sitting there calmly, a coffee cup on his desk and a mortician's report in his hands.

"Greg, have you bloody _seen_ the papers?"

"What papers?" He asks, unimpressed with her demeanor.

She curses and comes around to his side of the desk. He's just opened his laptop. She starts the search engine and types in the local paper's name. She clicks the first link and the same headline that screamed at her now stares him in the face.

"What is this? Some hoax?" He demands.

She scrolls down to where his picture is. "Not a hoax. Actually him."

"Alive?" Lestrade doesn't look like he believes it.

He picks up his office phone and makes a few calls, first to DI Dimmock, then the paper's editor, and finally one last number that Sally doesn't recognize.

"Mycroft? Is it true?"

Lestrade listens with Sally peering intently at him, and says, "Thank you."

"Well?" Sally snaps when he hangs up.

"It's true. Sherlock's alive. He was undercover chasing after some war criminal, a Colonel Moran, but he's alive," Lestrade says in wonder. He shakes his head and repeats, "Sherlock Holmes is alive."

"Fucking hell, I wasn't the reason he killed himself," Sally's face breaks into a grin. "He didn't kill himself."

She thinks of the last eight months and she's already reaching for her phone, calling the number she knows so well. A disgruntled voice answers, interrupted from sleep, "Hello?"

"Harry? It's me! Harry, Sherlock isn't dead!"

"Sally?" There's a pause and then, "What are you talking about? Why have you called me at 6 in the morning?"

"Harry! Sherlock is alive… I- I didn't cause it. It wasn't my fault!" Sally explains frantically.

"You really don't understand, do you?" Harry sounds pissed for some reason.

"Understand what? He's _alive_!" Sally emphasizes.

"Goodbye, Sally." The line cuts.

Sally stares at her phone in shock. Then Greg's taking the phone from her and saying, "Sally, why would you do that? No, no. Wrong choice."

He sits her down in a chair and she says, stunned, "I thought she'd be happy he's alive; I thought it would prove I wasn't really guilty."

"Sally, no," Greg is shaking his head, perhaps unsure how to explain. He doesn't need to. She already knows. The point is not- and never will be- the death of Sherlock or how it came to be. It was always about Sally and her compulsive desire to hide the truth and her reasons for meeting Harriet in the first place. Sally knows this and yet she doesn't. She feels even stupider now, having made the call. She had resisted for eight months, and now she had gone and wasted what might have been her only chance.

Sally slinks to her office, ashamed and grieved.

Later, Lestrade drops by and asks her to run an errand. He needs her to drive documents over to Bristol.

"Bristol? Jesus, Greg. That's two hours away."

He makes apologetic noises and adds "I don't trust anyone else. Tell you what- you can go straight home afterwards."

So she takes the documents and makes the trip to Bristol by cab, her mind an awful mess. Sherlock was alive but relationships were still broken. And even his miracle return couldn't fix something that she had gotten herself into. Perhaps she should accept the loss and move on.

_No,_ that persistent nagging in her mind says. _You can't._

Sally drops the documents off, signing her name, and heads back to London. She's about to follow Greg's advice and go straight home when she realizes he still has her phone. So she decides to drop by the Met first and pick it up. Sally knows something's different from the very instant she steps into the office. Everyone is at their place, but no one's really _working_.

The receptionist is the easiest target, and Sally sidles up to her. "What's going on?" She asks cautiously.

"Oh, you _just_ missed it!" She says, eyes gleaming.

"Missed what?"

"Sherlock Holmes was here earlier! He came to talk to the DI. Oh, isn't he amazing? He's being knighted, you know?"

Sally isn't listening anymore. She's marching all the way to Lestrade's office and throwing open his door and saying, "You knew, didn't you? You _knew_ he'd be dropping by and you didn't let me see him!"

She can tell by the way he drops his face into his hands that he's much too exhausted to deal with this at the moment. But she stands there and waits for his answer because, _damnit,_ she's waited three years and a few minutes mean nothing now. The door closes behind her before Greg scrubs his face and shrugs, "It wasn't the time for you to see him. Sherlock _and_ John were coming in. I made a tactical decision."

"Tactical? That's a load of bollocks and you know it! Greg, all I wanted to do was _talk_ to him!" She yelled.

"The way you're talking to me?" He returns.

"Oh, fuck off, Greg!" She immediately shuts her mouth after she says it; her breath hitching in her throat. She shakes her head and tries to make up for it, "I didn't mean it like that."

Thankfully, it's Greg. And he knows. He nods, "It's alright."

Sally lowers her tone and says, "Please, all I want to do is say I'm sorry."

"I'm sure that if Sherlock wants your apologies, he'll arrange it on his own time. For now, don't antagonize the situation. There's a lot of pressure on us to cooperate with him. He's a bloody hero now. Sally, for Gods sakes, be professional. Your personal relationship is going to have to wait," Lestrade's eyes are dark and willing for her to understand.

She's already lost so many people; Sally doesn't want to risk hurting her boss and only remaining friend. "Can I have my phone back?" She asks in a small voice.

Lestrade reaches into his inner pocket. He holds it out and says, "I'm making another tactical decision not to involve you in any cases regarding Sherlock. I don't want you going anywhere near him, you understand?"

"I understand," she continues in the same disillusioned manner.

Lestrade's right. She can't face him yet, anyway.

* * *

It's difficult to maneuver around Sherlock's comings and goings. All the interesting cases, all the truly macabre ones, go straight to Lestrade and Sherlock. Every time he's in the office, Sally finds herself assigned to some kind of busy field work. Which is not to say she doesn't have any cases of her own; she does, and they keep her preoccupied. It's tough being the odd one out, though.

She finds out from Lestrade that Mary has cancer. She remembers the beautiful woman with kind eyes and a gracious voice. It saddens her. _I couldn't be better friends with her. I ruined her engagement._

A month later, Lestrade tells her he's attending her funeral. Sally knows who will be there: John, Sherlock… Harry. She wraps a scarf around her neck and finds herself at the graveyard, lurking behind a tree and out of sight of the grievers.

From her vantage point, Sally can see the blonde hunched over the grave, standing tall with her head bowed. That was her Harry; probably still not crying. Staying tough for her brother, stiff upper lip and all. Sally leaves before the ceremony is over, returning back to Scotland Yard before anyone misses her.

* * *

When she gets home with the grocery- before she even turns on the lights- Sally hears a deep low baritone telling her, "I always knew you could do better than Anderson."

Sally flips the switch and nearly drops her bag. "Sherlock," she gasps.

"Did you miss me, Sally Donovan?" His intense blue eyes stare at her as she struggles for words.

From the very start when she'd originally heard he was dead, Sally knew there were things she wanted to say to him; apologies and regrets. Recognition. Credit. Over time, those words increased and multiplied until she nearly had an entire speech prepared for him. After Harry left, those words still continued to pile up until Sally felt she would burst with the weight of them. When she heard he was alive, she was desperate to speak to him.

But now Sherlock was sitting in her flat and she was speechless.

"I saw you at Mary's funeral this morning. Hiding. I know why."

"Of course you do. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes. You know everything. What gave it away this time? My shoes? The color of my walls? The welcome mat?" Sally didn't mean to sound so bitter, but the way he can sit there unmoved annoys her. She remembers the reasons she had been suspicious against him now.

"None of those. John told me," he says. He doesn't take his eyes off her for a single moment. She's sure he can see all of her private details, her unbrushed hair and wrinkled clothes and sweat stains and red eyes. She has no doubt he's already had a good look around her flat, at the mess of empty vodka bottles in the kitchen, the floor gritty with dust, her room littered with clothes that need to be washed. Is he being kind by not mentioning them? Or simply letting it pass because he doesn't have an audience?

"John told you?" Sally echoes hollowly.

"He _is_ sorry, you know," Sherlock adds. "He thinks you were good for his sister. He doesn't know how to admit that out loud, but he does think it."

"I'm sorry about Mary. She seemed lovely."

"Hm, yes. I suppose she was," Sherlock contemplates on this for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "I don't really understand the sentiment very well. John's very broken up over her death and I'm not sure what to do."

"Nothing. You can't do anything. He loved her, Sherlock. You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I?" He asks. Now Sherlock does not seem entirely in control. Emotions are not his area of expertise; if anything, Sally realizes, they are his weakness. Sherlock doesn't know how to deal with John's emotions. Sally wants to be happy that she's found something Sherlock is bad at but she wouldn't wish apathy on anyone. And she isn't sure why he's allowing himself to be weak in front of her; didn't he hate her?

"He loved you, too. _Loves_ you, actually, now that you're alive. Would've defended you to Hell and back," she thinks of the skull and the coat. She thinks of the anger on his face when he saw Sally for the first time.

"I understand there were harsh words between the two of you."

"My fault," Sally admits.

"I never blamed you," Sherlock replies quickly. "It never crossed my mind that you were responsible; the circumstances were awful, of course, but I don't think you knew about the mole at the Met."

"There's a mole at the Met?" She demands.

"Not anymore. He was one of the first men I… disposed of." Sherlock snickers.

Sally pretends not to hear that part. She can't remember the mole; perhaps she doesn't want to remember him. She wants herself to be the guilty one so she can make up for it, for thinking she was responsible for the past three years. She sets her bag of groceries down and shuts the door. "Do you want tea or something?" She asks Sherlock. She might as well, now that he's here.

"John expects me home in ten minutes. He thinks I'm out to get milk."

"Oh."

"I came to tell you Harry still misses you."

"Why? Why would you tell me that? Why would you tell me anything?"

Sherlock looks confused for a moment. He says, "Harry's been staying over since the funeral. Would you believe me if I said that dealing with two heart-broken Watsons is too much effort, even for me?"

"Since when are you any good at dealing with even one heart-broken Watson?"

"I've never encountered one before," he replies.

It's a fair enough answer. But she knows that can't be the only reason. "Okay, Sherlock, what is it? You're not this nice." she asks, sighing and crossing her arms.

"I owe you and I'm repaying my debt."

"Owe me? You don't owe me anything."

Sherlock smiles lightly at her. "I've nearly taken over your job since I've returned to London. Lestrade tries to make it subtle, but if it isn't completely obvious, I don't know what is. And… I believe I may have said things to you in the past that were, well, uncalled for."

"Are you an alien?" Sally blurts. "No, really, where's the real Sherlock who acts like a prick, and what have you done with him?"

Sherlock inhales sharply. "I have learned in the last three years what the _value_ of people is. Don't push your luck, Donovan."

She sees it then. Not explicitly, but there it is. Sherlock missed John Watson. And now he doesn't know how to help the only friend he has in the world. Her resolve shatters. "Well, if we're doing apologies, I'm sorry for all the things I've called you in the past," Sally says, thinking of harsh words that can destroy people, _freak, psychopath, druggie, monster, criminal._

"I _wasn't_ doing apologies," Sherlock scoffs. He steps past her and opens the door. "She's still working at the pub," he adds courteously before leaving.

Sally hears him close the door. Is she dreaming? It's not actually possible for Sherlock to _help_ her, is it? Perhaps he's luring her into some kind of a trap. Why? Should she go take to Harry? She hears him in her mind: _Don't push your luck_.

_But if I don't push it, how will I know if I have any remaining?_

She takes a step forward and spots something on the sofa; Sherlock's left something behind. Sally snatches the paper up, folded in quarters, and opens it. It's a sketch, really more of a doodle, showing the back of a frizzy-haired woman holding a cup of tea.

It's the most beautiful and tragic thing Sally's ever seen.

* * *

She goes the next day when she's on break. There's a different bartender that she doesn't recognize serving drinks when she takes a seat at the barstool. It's been so long since she's been here that everything looks foreign.

"Can I get you anything?" the bartender asks her.

"Oh, no. I'm waiting for a friend."

He shrugs and goes back to whatever he's doing.

She waits, knowing every wasted minute is one Greg is going to dock her for. She doesn't care. She's willing to wait here all day until Harry- oh. Harry walks out of a door at the back, a large packet of peanuts in her hands, making her way to the front. She looks tired and hot, flushed with sweat. Harry's eyes meet Sally's, she stops and her mouth drops open into a perfect "o". God, Sally can remember the things that mouth can do.

"What're you doing here?" Harry asks emotionlessly, ducking to behind the bar and refusing to meet eyes.

"I'm sorry about Mary."

"Okay. What're you doing here?"

"I came to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to you," Harry sneers condescendingly.

"I just," Sally swallows. Words elude her. She stands slowly but knows she doesn't want to leave yet. She sits back on the stool. "I want to say I'm sorry for not being honest with you from the start. When I. Well. When I went to the Superintendent about Sherlock, I didn't think any of that would happen. And after I did, I should've just told you."

Harry shrugs. "Okay. I still don't give a fuck. Are you going to order something? We have a policy, you know."

"No. Yes. I don't care. Give me anything if it means I can stay."

Harry pours her a pint and charges, "Four pounds."

Sally doesn't move, says "I miss you. I miss being with you and talking to you. I don't know how to make up for what I did, but I'm trying. Just give me a chance."

Harry puts both of her palms down flat on the wood between her and Sally, looking down, and says "It doesn't matter now."

"Yes, it does. Stop pretending it doesn't." Sally struggles to keep her voice low. There's only one old man in the pub at this hour, but she isn't trying to turn this into a yelling match.

Harry's head lowers more, her shoulders raised. It doesn't look like a particularly comfortable position but if you're trying to avoid looking into an ex's eyes, it does wonders. "Stop making this so bloody impossible," Harry growls. "You betrayed my trust; you hurt John. There are _consequences_," Harry looks up as the last word escapes her clenched teeth. There are lines on her forehead Sally doesn't recognize; angry lines, mourning lines.

"You tell me about consequences like I don't already know about them. I lived with the consequences of taking my stupid suspicions to higher authorities, thinking I had killed Sherlock for three fucking years," Sally hisses. "I've spent the last eight months living with the guilt that I had killed a man _and_ lied about it to my girlfriend, whose brother was nearly destroyed by those very same fucking consequences. I don't _enjoy _hurting people, okay? Don't talk to me about consequences, Harriet!"

Harry jerks back as if she's been slapped. Sally regrets saying the words as soon as they're out of her mouth. Feeling her face turn red, Sally slaps down money on the bar and leaves quickly before she makes things any worse.

_Fucking Sherlock, _thinks Sally. _He got it wrong; she doesn't miss me. How did I let myself trust a man who doesn't understand emotions?_

* * *

Harry knocks on her door that night. Sally opens the door and stares at her in astonishment. She'd figured her last chance was gone with her rant this morning. Fate could not be this nice to Sally Donovan, who had caused so many to suffer.

"Did you mean it? Everything you said?" Harry asks simply.

"Every word," Sally promises.

Harry drops her coat and flings herself into Sally's arms, lips connecting almost painfully.

Sally's smiling into the kiss before she even fully realizes that it's happening. But it is, this really is the warm body of Harry pressing against her, pushing her to the couch. The familiar scent envelopes Sally and she holds her close, unsure if she'll ever let go of her again. _No,_ she decides, _at least not tonight._

Harry breathlessly pulls away, her skin blushed pink and her lips cherry red. "Jesus, I fucking missed you."

Sally laughs. "I don't think I've done anything _but_ miss you; I don't know how any of my work got done. And, you have to understand, I really am sorry."

"I know." Harry kisses her again. "You won't believe what convinced me. Sherlock bloody Holmes was giving a fucking speech about how we should hold on to the people we love while they're still around. I know he was talking to John, but I couldn't help but listen in. And I knew in that instant I had to come see you."

Sally isn't sure if she wants to thank Sherlock Holmes or curse him, but she does both in her head and then busies losing herself in Harry's smooth skin.

* * *

A/N: I don't really like the way this turned out, but here it is. Maybe sometime in the future, I'll edit it. Unlikely.


End file.
